Free Don't Call Me Kitten! by Arwen Jayne

heels. “Simple and Italian.”
    “Who's going
to know where the shoes were made?”
    “Believe me
there are those who will know. If you want to vent your inner rebel
wear some stockings and suspenders. You know we'll be salivating
just thinking about them.”
    Thex and Simon
materialized into the bedroom, along with their cat. All three of
them seemed to be enjoying the show. Thex came over for a closer
inspection of Tyra's outfit, caressing the straight of her back and
adjusting her collar before stepping back apparently pleased.
“You've got that right Arion.”
    “Well isn't
that going to frustrate the hell out of all of you while we all sit
through this Council meeting.”
    Simon's eyes
twinkled with mischief. He was obviously already scheming. “We'll
be anticipating removing them from you. All that power. I may need
to remind you of your place. The place in my heart that is.”
    Tyra blushed,
the rest of her blood rushing to heat her core. “Sheesh. Stop it
Simon. You're making me wet.”
    Simon came
over and whispered in her ear. Not that the others couldn't hear
but the effect was intimate and sent a shiver through Tyra. “I'll
behave...but only until I don't have to.”
5
     
    Damn he was
still there! It was the same blank faced mobster in dark glasses
who’d been following her since she’d left her home. He was short
but thick set with balding hair and distinguished by a hefty
mustache that matched the thickness of his bushy brows. His ill
fitting oversized jacket was ominously bulky even if there was no
way he could have gotten a gun past airport security.
    Returning from
a loo stop she’d casually walked back to her seat, surreptitiously
taking in his measure as she went past his row. He’d have to be
dealt with after they landed but for now she'd keep pretending she
hadn’t noticed him. Like icing on her cake of troubles her
allocated seat wasn’t getting any better either. After nearly
twenty one hours in the air it wasn’t getting any softer, or
bigger. There was only one description she felt about her current
accommodation and that was ‘wedged’.
    No one she
knew would dare call her large but a few had been brazen enough to
call her ‘big boned’ to her face. Usually the look she gave them
was enough for them to go white as a sheet and never mention it
again. Something about the scar on her face made them back away in
fear. Quietly honest with herself though, at nearly six feet tall
and eleven stone she was ... well ... big boned. But since she had
less than three percent body fat on her whole body she didn’t see
that as a big deal. She smiled to herself with the knowledge it
kept men at bay as well, men who weren’t put off by the scar.
Really she had no time for the other half of her species, except in
a professional capacity. Even her below shoulder viking blond hair,
classic high boned cheeks, clear blue eyes and ample chest weren’t
enough for most guys to get up the nerve to talk to her casually.
The guy in the window seat, next to her, was nearly hugging the
window, just to keep his distance. She refrained from looking at
him so as not to intimidate him any more than he already was. The
last thing she needed was him clambering past her to escape.
    The English
woman, Sue, in the aisle seat had been friendly enough. They’d
chatted briefly about the sights in Moscow but mostly they’d just
read their respective ebooks and slept, only occasionally stirring
to accept an inflight meal or drink from a passing hostess. Somehow
she didn’t think the smartly dressed business woman in her white
pressed shirt, tailored suit and no-nonsense flat shoes would like
what she was reading but you could never tell just from appearances
alone.
    One thing her
“other’ job had taught her was that appearances could be deceiving.
She’d learnt to be perceptive to the little things most people
missed: tiny mannerisms, the rate and depth of the breath, the
dilation or contraction of the pupils, the